Page 29 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

The shift in temperature is instant when we step outside. The cooler autumn air kisses my flushed cheeks as we move away from the heat of the food booth. Lawson’s hand rests gently on the small of my back, and I hate how my skin reacts to the simple touch and how much I feel it everywhere.

Has he always done that? Touched me so gently and guided me as we walked and I just forcefully ignored it? Blocked it out so that my mind wouldn't get ridiculous ideas that I know can never come to fruition.

I think the answer is yes because I told myself it didn’t mean anything. But does it mean something now ?

Dammit, this is the worst. This mental purgatory that I’ve put myself in.?

We weave past food trucks and spinning rides, the smell of fried dough and popcorn clinging to the breeze. Then he takes a turn behind a building, his grip tightening on my hip as he guides me around the corner.

“Oh, cool. Is this where you take people you’re about to murder?” I joke, trying to break the tension, even though my voice is way too breathless.

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he stops near a small seating area tucked behind one of the game booths. No one’s around. He stays standing, jamming his hands into his hair, looking agitated, gorgeous and entirely too close.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice rough and eyes heated.

I don’t answer right away because I don’t know how to answer that question. Because everything’s swirling and messy and I broke rules that I swore I’d never break again.

Because the only thing scarier than getting close to him, is the thought of what happens after I do and the possibility that we might not last.

“What do you mean?”

He exhales like I’m trying to make this harder than it needs to be, dragging a hand down his face before tipping his eyes to the sky as if he’s asking it to translate me for him.

“Dani,” he mutters, “you know what I’m asking you.”

I cross my arms, more out of self-preservation than attitude. “Nothing’s going on. I’m working, and I’m about to head back to your house and pack up my stuff so that I can get out of you and Beckham's hair.”

His brows crash together. “Why the hell would you do that?”

I blink. “Uh, because Catalina’s gone. You saw her leave this morning. You heard her leave.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And” I say slowly, like I’m explaining something obvious to a child, “that means I don’t need to stay at your house anymore. Thank you for letting me stay these past few days, but I'll head back to Isla's place now and my bedroom.”

He stares at me like I just suggested lighting his barn on fire for fun. “That’s not what it means.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Lawson, that’s exactly what it means.”

He looks wrecked. Like he’s holding something inside that’s about to split him open, and I don't get why he's so upset. At least if I’m living at my sister’s house, we won’t be tempted to do what we did this morning again.

“Are you mad?” I ask.

He blows out a rough breath. “Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe. I just… I feel like I’m in the dark about something and I hate this feeling. I feel completely out of control. Like I don’t know what’s going on here.”

Oh.

Well, that explains it. Lawson Marshall and control are a package deal.

That’s something we’ve always had in common.

I color code my planner, have backup plans for backup plans, and he controls his life in a different way.

All internalized while projecting externally that he’s winging it.

But that’s what I’ve learned over the past year that internally, he’s a planner, a guy that likes to know what’s happening just as much as I do.

Which is why we thrive. I plan everything, talking it out with him, and he adjusts.

But he knows with me involved, some of the mental load is shared. And I know with him, though we’ve never said it out loud, I can count on him to be prepared too.

And in this instance, he’s probably feeling like I don’t have things under control and neither does he, so we’re both just... flailing. And for a second, yeah. I feel badly because I get it. It's a terrible feeling and one that I’m familiar with.

“Look,” I start, carefully, “so we hooked up once—”

“Twice,” he cuts in, stepping closer.

“Yes. Twice. And it was… good.”

“You’re a damn liar.” His voice is deep and steady.

His eyes are full of heat as he closes the space between us.

I instinctively back up until my shoulders hit the wall behind me.

He’s not touching me, but the intensity in his eyes drops me right back to last night and to this morning.

My pulse stutters, my nipples tighten under my shirt, and my breath catches as his gaze moves down to my low cut shirt.

“Lawson—”

“It was fucking incredible , and you know it.” His voice is almost a growl. “You said it yourself. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your pussy all morning. I need more, Dani.”

I swallow. Hard. I should say something.

Anything. But I’m frozen. His hand finds my hip, warm and solid, and I feel his other arm brace against the building beside my head, caging me in with the lightest pressure.

His chest presses against mine and his pelvis rocks forward.

I can feel him harden in his denim jeans and my mouth parts on a gasp.

“You’re turned on right now, aren’t you?” he demands.

“No,” I squeak, sounding thoroughly unconvincing.

His mouth tips up in a slow, dangerous smile. “How many times have you wanted me to do that these past thirteen months that we’ve worked together?”

Oh no. We are not going there . Because a lie would be once or twice, the truth would be one thousand times.

“Fine, don’t answer that,” he continues, his voice dipping even lower. “But I’ll tell you how many times I’ve thought about it. Every goddamn night. Every time that you fell asleep on the plane next to me, your head on my shoulder, snoring like a baby.”

“I do not snore.” I try to deflect.

He chuckles. “You do. And it’s adorable. Sometimes I couldn't stop watching your lips while you breathed and admiring how soft they are. I wonder what it'd feel like to kiss them.”

My cheeks pink up. He does that. He’s done that? Because I might have done the same when he’s fallen asleep on planes. He’s got some nice lips. And that reminds me, he hasn’t kissed me yet. Do I want him to kiss me?

Oh god, what am I doing?!

He chuckles again. “Every night when we had those separate hotel rooms right next to each other…”

“You entertained multiple women, if I recall correctly.”

His brows shoot up. “I didn't 'entertain,' all of them. Most of them were for work. Most nights I slept alone," he starts but then his eyes narrow. "Did that bother you?”

“No!” I say way too loudly, voice cracking like a liar caught mid-sprint.

He leans in, slow and sure, his nose brushing along the side of my neck like he already knows the effect it has on me—and damn it, he’s right.

Every nerve ending lights up like I’ve been plugged into a live wire.

Shivers roll down my spine like an avalanche.

Because he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s so fucking good at it too.

And I’m starting to realize he’s been thinking about this, us, for longer than I let myself hope. Maybe we’ve both just been waiting for one reckless moment to let it all spill over.

“I needed a fucking distraction,” he says, voice low, jaw tight.

“From sitting next to you all day. Talking to you. Eating with you. Flying with you. Living in that tension. I tried with other women, Dani. But they never helped. They didn’t take the edge off.

Because it was always you that I was thinking about instead.

My employee. The forbidden fruit. The one woman that I thought would never want me back. ”

I swallow hard. The words are right there, caught in my throat. I want to tell him he wasn’t alone in those feelings. That I felt it too. That every night I heard the click of his hotel door closing, I wished it was mine.

But I can’t. I can’t do that. Because I’ve done this before. I’ve blurred the lines between work and want. And it broke me.

Romance novels might turn that mess into a happy ending and call it a boss and employee romance trope, but in real life?

Workplace relationships end in HR meetings, painful exits, or worse, bitter resentment and broken trust. And I’ve already gambled once.

I’m not sure I have it in me to lose again.

“Don’t go back to Isla's tonight,” he says with a plea.

“I have to.”

“Then come home with me now,” he murmurs, stepping in close again. “Let me take care of your body. And tell me who the fuck Elijah is and what your sister meant earlier when she mentioned a heart attack.”

And just like that, the temperature drops. Reality crashes in like a cold front. Cold water. That’s what it feels like. A full bucket dumped right over my head.

Elijah. The stress. The stroke. My old job.

All the things I’ve worked so hard to compartmentalize start breaking through, and it’s too much.

I can feel my heart begin to race, and I know a panic attack is starting.

I've been having them for years and the best thing for me to do is get a distraction from the situation, splash some cold water on my hands and face and take some deep, cleansing breaths before it gets worse.

I duck under his arm, catching him off balance just long enough to slip free.

“Let me pack up my stuff. Then I’ll tell you what you need to know.” My voice is quieter now. “I just… I need a minute to gather my thoughts. Please.”

He exhales through his nose, frustrated, jaw clenched. “Fine. Want me to drive you back?”

“I brought my car. I’ll meet you later—after you’re done with your brothers. I just need a little time alone before we talk Law.”

He steps toward me like he might say more, like he might reach for me, but I take a big step back before he can. Because if he touches me, I’ll give in again. And if I give in, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop this time.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I say softly, then turn and walk away before my knees can give out.